


on the level

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demon!Aziraphale, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Old Friends, Role Reversal, angel!Crowley, armageddon't, flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: If one were to see Crowley and Aziraphale side by side and asked to pick which one looked like an angel and which one looked like a demon, they would be hard pressed to answer you.





	on the level

**Author's Note:**

> i'm joining the good omens hype;; i love these two send help. an angel? a demon? 6000 years slow burn? you could make a religion out of this.  
> but we'll start by making a fanfiction.  
> 

Aziraphale was not a very good demon. 

As a general rule, he preferred to succumb to temptation, rather than do the tempting. Gluttony, for example, was a familiar sin, and one he relished in. There were so many good little restaurants on Earth… Satan be damned again, but sushi was simply to die for. He pitied Beelzebub and the other Lords of Hell, who thought themselves so above humans that they missed out on pleasures such as these. 

Presently, he found himself at St James’ Park, a perfectly nice spot to accomplish a bit of temptation. 

Take that family man, for example, content in his marriage with his wife and their newborn little girl. Let his gaze linger on a young, pretty jogger passing by; make him reconsider his life, and choices, and wife, until he eventually (if the push Aziraphale had given him was strong enough) cheated, and ruined his own happiness.

Humans were rather good at that, Aziraphale found. Purposefully putting themselves in difficult situations, whining about it and then blaming their misery on others. They did not need demons' interferences, most of the time. 

He could also go for something simpler and torture some ducks, but that had lost its appeal over time. Another demon would probably have done it and laughed. Cruelty came naturally to them. 

That was the kind of things he was supposed to do. It was his job : make humans miserable, and find amusement in it. All this in the name of Satan. A human who let themselves succumb to temptation would, if Aziraphale had done his job right, end up in Hell after his passing. Poor unfortunate souls. 

But on most days, well, he simply couldn’t be bothered. If his superiors in Hell grumbled a little about his lack of reports, Aziraphale usually took the credit for things humans did, in which he’d had absolutely no hand whatsoever. But they seemed remarkable compared to the little individual temptations his fellow demons accomplished. He'd gathered a bit of a reputation on Earth, as such. It was said that he was the cleverest of them all, and that he understood humans in a better way than any other demon, who only occasionally popped by to Earth under specific orders. Aziraphale had _settled_ on Earth, blending amongst humans, befriending them only to better stab them in the back and get away scot free. 

In recent years he'd said he invented Facebook, and vaping, and traffic jams on the M25. He said that he was actively encouraging the slow but steady rise of fascism and the far right in Europe. Since he was based in London, he couldn't take credit for things like Donald Trump or the many mass shootings in America. He did not know what demons worked there, and he wasn't sure they even had a hand in all those massacres. He'd be relieved if they did, but… Knowing humans, they probably didn't. 

But he had grown weary. He wasn’t free of sins, but he'd come to… sort of lose interest in his job. Humans did perfectly well on their own - why bother at all with tempting them when he could just be having fun?

Besides, he preferred long term projects. None of the previous examples were true, but he had a few things under his belt that cemented his status as a demon. He liked to focus on one specific person for a long time, liked to accompany them as they fell. He had known Margaret Thatcher personally, for example. 

He also liked to put things into motion. Little, little actions that could have enormous repercussions - the butterfly effect. He happened to be in Massachusetts when they burned the first 'witch', and in Austria when Archduke Ferdinand was killed. 

(He had been a bit horrified when he saw what those little things resulted in. He felt equally disgusted and… proud. He was a demon; he thrived on chaos. It was in his nature. Those were the highlights of his résumé. 

But all of that had happened before he settled indefinitely in London, Soho. He had mellowed a bit; as he said, humans did very well on their own, and besides, the less demonic he was, the more Crowley would see him.)

As a result of his current fabricated misdeeds and previous accomplishments, he was left in peace by Hell. He was free to peruse books as he liked, dine in lavish restaurant settings and - the thing he held most dear to his heart - he was free to spend time with his one and only friend, Crowley. 

Oh, Crowley. 

Crowley wasn’t like him. 

While also an ethereal being millennia old like Aziraphale, he was on the opposite side. He was an angel, sent to Earth at the same time as the demon, to do good where Aziraphale did bad. To thwart Aziraphale's wiles. 

They (along with dozens of other missionaries from Above and Below operating in other countries) were meant to keep things balanced on Earth, although Aziraphale tended to think there was naturally more evil in humanity than good. Crowley disagreed, but the thought made him terribly sad and anxious. He worked overtime to miracle love and kindness and all sorts of fuzzy feelings where he could. Aziraphale let him. 

Contrary to the demon, Crowley was very good at his job, and particularly inventive and genuine. He cared about Earth and humanity the way no divine being ought to care. Aziraphale had had to pick up the pieces of him multiple times, when something in the history of humanity had personally affected him. He'd found him shattered with grief in times of war, alight with fury, drinking himself into oblivion and raging at God. Aziraphale made sure no one heard him. 

He cared too much. Was too emphatic, too understanding, too compassionate. He was a being of _love_. While the time spent on earth did change Aziraphale to some degree, making him softer, he remained a demon. Being away from Satan's aura helped, but not to the extent that he managed to understand Crowley on that level. The angel's light felt like the warmth of a bonfire, safe and comforting. Aziraphale remained in the shadows, as was his place - observing it. He was fascinated by Crowley, who was _good_ incarnate _._

(And he knew it wasn't just because he was an angel ; it was because he was Crowley. He'd met other angels, a few times. They'd tried to smite him on sight. They were bastards. But Crowley was curious. Curious enough to ask questions first, and strike second. Before Aziraphale knew it, they had become… friends. An arrangement of sorts.) 

Crowley had encouraged Shakespeare, had participated in the first gay pride parade, was there for the creation of Disney and Studio Ghibli. Everyday, he accomplished blessings and miracles. He gave a winning lottery ticket to a homeless man, encouraged a young exhausted college student to leave a relationship she felt trapped in, and helped old ladies cross the sidewalk. He encouraged the building of churches and cathedrals, and the search for spirituality in this new technological and materialistic era. He protected institutions like colleges and schools; oversaw the creation of museums, encouraged anyone to create. 

Crowley had settled in London, like Aziraphale, but he traveled more. He lived in a modern flat, full of luxurious plants. He talked to them daily, praising them, and some were so eager to please him that their leaves reached as far up as the ceiling; they were in bloom all time of the year. His place resembled an impressionist painting with little dashes of colors everywhere. It smelled heavenly too. Fitting, for an angel. 

Aziraphale’s place, his bookshop, by contrast, was dark, dusty, and damp. 

It was cluttered, piles of books atop piles of books atop even more books in every corner; and labyrinthine - one could only find Aziraphale amidst the chaos if one knew where to look. If the demon didn’t want to be found, then he wouldn’t be. This discouraged many potential customers who’d been brave enough to push open the door, attracted to the antique look of the bookshop. 

It didn’t matter. Aziraphale didn’t own a bookshop to make money. He didn’t need that, he was a demon. Money just came to him if he needed it. When asked, he’d said to his superiors that the bookshop was a cover for doing the devil's work: the poor clients who came in here supposedly walked out with corrupted minds and reading material they wouldn't remember buying that would give nuns heart attacks. 

The bookshop was one of the few little things he had come to truly cherish on earth, behind food and Crowley. It was his refuge. He was rather proud of his immense collection, and couldn’t help but gloat over it whenever asked. 

Aziraphale was incredibly smart, and knowledgeable about all sorts of subjects. Of course, it helped that he’d actually lived some of the events historians liked to write about, and could tut in exasperation when he came across inaccuracies. He’d been there for the rise and fall of Rome and the crucifixion of Jesus. Even particularly accomplished scholars did not hold a candle to him. He liked to frequent universities, to have interesting conversations and debates with professors and doctors, but in the end he always got bored. 

That was also why he loved Crowley so much: the angel had lived as long as him, and he _understood_ him. They ever ran out of things to discuss. They could sit and talk for hours, and never get bored. Never had Aziraphale found such a connection with another being. 

-

If one were to see Crowley and Aziraphale side by side and asked to pick which one looked like an angel and which one looked like a demon, they would be hard pressed to answer you. Crowley did not dress in whites or greys like his angelic counterparts, Gabriel and such like. No, he liked to wear deep colors; his ensembles were always perfectly harmonious and reminded one of things such as embers, a sunset or a peacock’s vibrant feathers. Bold, beautiful, and rich. His eyes were a peculiar shade of the purest gold, something he was rather embarrassed about and hid behind sunglasses. His hair was auburn and shined like copper threads in the sunlight. He had angular features, knifesharp cheekbones, and a long, lean body, compared to Aziraphale's shorter, pudgy own (he’d really let himself go all these years).  

Crowley’s smile was a bit crooked. Sometimes he looked a Aziraphale with such fondness and kindness the demon had to make an excuse and hide away the time it took for his corporeal body to calm down. He did not deserve to be looked at with such affection, did not deserve to bask in Crowley’s light. 

Aziraphale himself felt lucky not to have any of the particularly repulsive, disgusting features other demons did. Lord Beelzebub, with her head full of flies and her skin melting off her face; Hastur, who could turn into litteral mountains of crawling maggots. It had to do with Aziraphale’s origins. Some demons had been animals, before they took on a human form. The most well-known of them all was the serpent, the one who tempted Eve to bite into that apple, the one who gave humans knowledge. Aziraphale had met that serpent a few times. He called himself Labebantur now, and he was one of the Lords of Hell. A nice chap, for a demon, if a bit too full of himself. He liked to lord the original Sin above others. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been a snake. He was a raven. A white raven, to be precise. Surprisingly, those origins facilitated his integration in the human world better than Crowley’s did. His eyes were a light blue, his hair blond and soft as feathers. He was bleached of colors, liked to dress in beige, white and cream tones, always just a touch out of style. He and Crowley were polar opposites. 

-

The demon hummed under his breath as he delicately dusted off one of his first Oscar Wilde editions. He felt particularly cheerful today, because today was Friday, and Friday nights meant he saw Crowley for their weekly dinner, usually followed by drinks at their respective places. It had only been a week, but he missed his friend terribly. 

There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere as he heard the doorbell ring, and Aziraphale carefully placed the book back on his office desk. He turned towards the door and waited for Crowley to make his entrance. Already, he was smiling, despite himself. 

“Brought you some heavenly red wine!” Crowley called. “Demon! Where are you, you foul fiend...” 

It was very easy to picture him strutting into the bookshop, with his distinctive, lazy gait. Crowley walked like a replete tomcat who’d just seen a new prey and would chase it just for the hell of it. It was hardly respectable for an angel. Provocative. Crowley took up space, and he let it be known. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers to turn the “Open” sign on the front door to “Closed”, as finally the angel appeared in front of him with a grin. He leaned against the nearest bookshelf and held up the bottle of wine in offering. “A 1995 Chateauneuf du Pape, dear devil. Cost me quite a fortune.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, knowing full well Crowley had just miracled it into existence. He materialized two wine glasses out of thin air, and gestured for Crowley to sit on the sofa. Aziraphale’s quarters were cramped, with barely any light filtering through as he kept the curtains closed, but Crowley did not seem to mind. He once said that compared to Heaven's too bright, white light, it felt cozy and relaxing. 

Aziraphale did have one green plant in a corner, posed atop a cabinet in which he kept ink, papers, and old notebooks for his accounting. Crowley had gifted it to him, purposely choosing something that did not require much light or water. The snake plant was surprisingly in good health. Crowley liked to have a look at it every time he came, and tonight was no exception; he walked up to the plant to peruse at it while Aziraphale poured them both wine, critically examining its leaves and overall appearance. 

Aziraphale supposed he found the inspection satisfactory, for he didn’t utter any criticism. He turned with a satisfied hum to take the glass Aziraphale presented, and raised it to the demon. He said that he never expected the plant to last this long, and that he’d always known that Aziraphale, despite his demonic nature, was a good caretaker. 

Aziraphale merely sipped his drink in reply. If anyone else had gifted him with a plant, he would have burned it. But he cherished anything Crowley gave him. 

6000 years and sometimes he was still not used to the fact that he’d formed a lasting friendship with an _angel_. 

Crowley was different. By all means he should have smote the demon upon first meeting him, somewhere around 3 666 BC - but he hadn’t. Instead he’d lowered his flaming sword and said, “Well you don’t look like what I expected. You're beautiful. You sure you’re a demon?” 

Aziraphale had taken offense and cawed at him, rather loudly, before taking on his human form. Crowley had laughed and said, “Yes, you are. Since we’re going to spend the next thousand years together, can I offer you a drink?” 

Aziraphale, feeling wrong footed the entire time, had said yes. This was the first Angel they’d chosen to represent Heaven on earth? This was the Adversary, the Enemy, the one he was supposed to be fighting for the next few centuries? Aziraphale found him handsome, unprejudiced, and kind. It was puzzling, but the demon wasn’t about to complain. 

Crowley took his silence as agreement and hereby declared that he’d bring Aziraphale another plant to lighten up the place more. 

“It’s really not necessary,” Aziraphale said half-heartedly. Crowley was already done with his first glass, and refilled it. 

“I insist,” Crowley said, heabutted. “It’ll do you some good. By the way, is that a new suit?” 

Aziraphale preened, pleased that Crowley had noticed. “It is! I picked it up from the tailor today. What do you think?” 

“It’s blue,” Crowley pointed out, for indeed the blazer was, the same light blue color as the demon’s eyes. Crowley blushed and looked away. “It - ah, it’s. Less of a disaster than the previous ones,” he settled on. “Not 50 years out of style, at least.” 

“Thank you, angel,” Aziraphale smiled. He’d stayed standing when Crowley was sitting, making the angel look up at him (and admire the cut of said suit). “But enough about me - how have you been doing the past week?” 

And so it went. 

They chattered late into the night. As time went by and drinks were consumed, the very atmosphere surrounding them became sluggish, warm, a bit blurry around the edges. 

Aziraphale ended up sitting next to his friend on the small couch. Both of them are taken off their outer layers : Crowley his red leather jacket, Aziraphale his blazer. 

And, as always when they got drunk, Crowley became… affectionate. His inhibitions lowered, he let Aziraphale become physically close to him in a way he never would have dared if he was sober - something Aziraphale enjoyed a lot. He liked that Crowley trusted him enough, against all odds, to be that vulnerable around him. Sometimes, Aziraphale thought that Crowley forgot what exactly they were and where they stood. He saw in Aziraphale a friend, and an ally. Even while he knew what Aziraphale had been up to in the last thousand years, he didn’t hold it against him. As far as he was aware, most of the catastrophes that had happened on Earth where not of the demon’s personal doing. 

Still. There was a gap between tolerance, and getting drunk with a demon. Letting the demon hold you close and pet your hair. The lines between what was acceptable and what was unthinkable had been blurred long ago, for both of them. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Crowley mumbled. He was leaning against Aziraphale, his drink forgotten. His eyes were half-closed. Were he a cat, he would have been purring. Aziraphale wove his fingers through the angel’s hair, deftly massaging his scalp in regular circles. Whenever he got close to the nape of Crowley’s neck, it made him shiver, which in turn made Aziraphale think decidedly unholy thoughts. He did not feel guilty about them. 

It was intoxicating. This whole thing they had. A forbidden relationship. Heaven and Hell being none the wiser. Crowley, being so trusting and gullible, oblivious to the true nature of Aziraphale's heart. He wanted to possess him, wanted to pluck Crowley from Heaven, tear him away from her Grace and keep him. 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale replied, a beat too late. He kissed the top of his friend’s head. “Yes. I was thinking that we ought to be more careful, my dearest. If Heaven or Hell were to find out about us... “ 

Crowley groaned and snuggled closer to him. He clearly did not wish to be reminded of the danger, not when he was so content. "They left us alone - all these years. Except for the blasted rapp - reap - _reports._ Think they’re too mighty to come to Earth or something.” He hiccuped. “It’s fine.” 

Aziraphale chuckled. “You’re too careless, Crowley. I know we won’t be left alone for much longer.” He straightened up as he suddenly recalled the reason why he was so eager to see Crowley today. It was rather important, but his mind had been elsewhere - namely on how soft Crowley’s hair was. “I received a message from Below.” 

Crowley stilled. With great effort, he disantangled himself from Aziraphale to look the demon in the eyes. “Did you?” 

“Yes,”said Aziraphale. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “I did. Through the computer. Hastur just said that I should get ready, because it is coming. They’re making preparations.” 

Crowley stared at him. Incomprehension, realization, then disbelief dawned on his face. He was so easy to read. “I’m - way too drunk for this conversation.” He concentrated, burped, and the wine bottles refilled themselves. The angel passed his hand through his hair, and rubbed at his eyes before turning towards Aziraphale once more with utmost seriousness. The physical distance between them had grown again. “Armageddon.” 

“Yes.” 

“Preparations? What do they mean by that?” 

“It means the Antichrist will no doubt be on this Earth before the month is over. And… ” he added as an afterthought, “I’ll probably have to look after him. To make sure he’s properly evil.” 

Crowley exhaled slowly. The good cheer and warmth he exuded before were gone; already Aziraphale could see him racking his brain to find a miraculous solution to what was inevitable. The Almighty’s Great Plan could not be avoided, like one could choose to avoid coming in to work. “Aziraphale… What does that mean for - for us?” 

Aziraphale struggled briefly not to show on his face the elation he felt at the angel's words. He took Crowley's hands in his, and slowly rubbed circles over his soft skin. Crowley seemed fragile, delicate like morning dew. Aziraphale truly wished he had better news to deliver, wished he hadn’t opened his mouth in the first place. But Crowley would never have forgiven him, would never have talked to him again if he had done his part and put Armageddon into motion without mentioning it to him first. They could face this together. He did not want to see how heartbroken Crowley would be if the end of the world came about. Watching the fall of humanity would destroy him. 

“I’m so sorry, love,” said Aziraphale, and he was. He really was. "I'm afraid there's something else. They’ll give me the Antichrist, and I’ll be the one to deliver him where he needs to be. I will give him to whatever unfortunate family has been chosen to raise him. These are my orders - for now. I can’t refuse, angel, or they would know something is possibly wrong. It has to happen exactly as they say.” 

Crowley got up from the sofa. He took the sunglasses he had tucked into the collar of his shirt and put them on again, hiding his golden eyes (much to Aziraphale's chagrin). He miracled the coffee table away with a glare, and took to pacing the floor rapidly. Aziraphale followed him with his eyes. Crowley’s hands were in his pockets, his head bowed, and he muttered ineligible sentences. 

Aziraphale leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, joining his hands as if in prayer. 

“When is this supposed to happen?” snapped Crowley. As he was staring at Aziraphale accusingly, as though this was _his_ fault. He wasn't wrong. But if Aziraphale hadn't done it, some other demon would have, without asking questions. It was an honor they were giving him : to be the first to hold the son of Satan, the Great Beast, Destroyer of Worlds, etcetera. Other demons would give their right arm (or someone's right arm, anyway) to be in his place. "How long have we got?" 

“Like I said,” Aziraphale replied with patience, “About a month. I don’t know. I’m waiting on further instructions.” 

Crowley scowled. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, thumping his foot on the floor like an excited rabbit, as he did when he was anxious. 

“What are you thinking, my dear?” Aziraphale finally asked after Crowley had not said a word for ten minutes. He had resumed his pacing, hands crossed behind his back, his brows furrowed. 

“We have to stop Armageddon,” he said, matter of factly, as if it was as easy as going grocery shopping. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and rather thought they should open another bottle. He rose up as well, brushing the front of his shirt. 

“Crowley, my dear - we can’t. It’s all part of the Great Plan. This is what Heaven and Hell have been preparing for ever since the very beginning, since Lucifer… ” he trailed off. 

He did not like to be reminded of his Fall. It had been rather painful. Excruciating agony. 

He’d begged for Forgiveness as he Fell, for all he ever did was ask questions. _Why was he a Principality? Why create the Earth and humans? If he was Good, then what was defined as Bad?_

Lucifer, the Morningstar, a Seraphim, so above Aziraphale's rank, had encouraged these questions. He had rallied angels all around Heaven, and tried to give them answers. He had encouraged Free Will, and was the first to be Struck. 

Aziraphale had felt his Mother weep for him, for all of them as he fell, and still he had burned. He had sunk low - lower than dirt. None of them had deserved this. And none of them deserved the upcoming war, but they had been lying in wait for decades. 

On Hell’s part, millennia of resentment and hatred against those who had managed to stay in Her Good Grace were finally finding an outlet. They had something to fight against, an Adversary, a recipient to unleash their rage and grief onto. If they won, they would rule the world, and that meant the restoration of some of their old glory. They wouldn’t be less than dirt. They wouldn't be vermin. They would be victors and conquerors. For Heaven, it was about settling an old argument by proving once and for all who was the strongest. Heaven believed they would win. Good triumphing over evil, the age-old tale : why would this time be any different? 

But Hell had a strong argument in their favor : the Antichrist. The son of Satan, entrusted with powers that surpassed even those of the Cherubims. Not God’s powers, for Satan was not Their equal. Satan had been a Seraphim, close to God, the closest an angel could be; but he was not Her. Still, his son would have powers none of them could imagine, and he was the key to the end of the world. His existence and role was primordial. 

Aziraphale did wonder, still. What was the point of creation, if you were only going to destroy what you had so carefully made? Why create it at all? 

The Earth was a beautiful thing. Humans had their faults, but surely they did not deserve to be entirely wiped out from the surface of the earth. They had too much to offer, and too much history behind them. They at least deserved to know what was coming for them. Did God care? Humans prayed daily to the Almighty, but did They care? 

“We have to try,” Crowley insisted, apparently following the same train of thoughts. They were an angel and a demon, not mere humans. And they knew about Armageddon. Maybe they could do _something_ to prevent a massacre. “You’re clever, right? You're very clever, Aziraphale. Come on. How do we stop this? I don’t want to fight. I don't want to have to - kill anybody. I don't… I don't want to fight _you,"_ he said, crestfallen _._

“You won’t have to,” Aziraphale promised. “I’d never hurt you, Crowley.” 

“I know. You’re the one who will be handed the Antichrist. We can’t change that for obvious reasons, but we can change what happens next. Why did they choose you?” 

“Because they trust me,” Aziraphale said simply. "Believe it or not, I have quite a reputation in Hell." 

“I know. I don’t trust you."

Aziraphale tilted his head and stepped closer, amused. “You do. 6000 years, my dear, and I've never done anything to hurt you personally.” 

“I shouldn’t trust you,” Crowley said urgently. "You're a demon. It goes against reason." Aziraphale kept advancing on him, a wicked smile on his lips as Crowley backed away. His retreat was stopped by the bookshelf at his back. “Aziraphale, stop that.” 

“Or what?” Aziraphale murmured. Their feet were touching. With two fingers the demon tilted Crowley’s chin up, looking him straight in the eyes. He could feel the heat radiating off the angel, and it had nothing to do with divine light. “You’ll… smite me? You don't have the balls for it. Literally,” he added with a pointed look down. Crowley became bright red. He slapped Aziraphale's hand away, and slithered away from the bookshelf. Aziraphale chuckled. 

This was a little game Aziraphale had been playing for centuries. Whenever Crowley gave him the old "we're on opposite sides we shouldn't be friends" speech, Aziraphale became coy and seducing. He was a tempter. If Crowley _truly_ wanted him to stop, one word from him and the demon would. But, he suspected, Crowley liked those moments a bit too much, for he always provoked them - and always became extremely flustered in the process. 

One day. One day he would succumb to it, and Aziraphale would eat him alive. Perhaps when the world had ended, and they were the only ones left behind. 

“We could kill him,” he said eerily, not turning around. He knew Crowley was behind him, trying to recover from their sudden, close proximity - reminding himself that Aziraphale was just a demon - that he couldn’t _love._ Oh, how Aziraphale knew him well. How he adored him. He would gladly tear the world apart himself if it meant staying with his angel. 

“What?” 

“We could kill him,” Aziraphale repeated. “He might be the son of Satan, but when I get him, he’ll just be a baby. Easiest thing to kill.” 

“You would kill the Antichrist? The son of Satan?” Crowley asked quietly, his voice laden with incredulity. “Do you have a death wish?” 

“I would, if it pleased you,” Aziraphale said simply. “I’m a demon, dear. It shouldn’t be too hard to trade a baby for the lives of millions.” 

The finality of his answer hung suspended in the air. They both knew the truth behind Aziraphale's words. it would be the simplest solution. But the act was so horrible it would condemn Crowley to eternal damnation, and Aziraphale to certain death. When Hell learned, he would be destroyed. 

The world would be saved, and Crowley would be alone. 

A hand on his shoulder. The angel whirled him around, reversing their positions. He slammed Aziraphale against the bookshelf, his wings unfurling in the real plane behind him. They engulfed the tight space both men were in, pressed against the walls. They brightened the room with an ethereal glow, the light of a thousand burning suns. Aziraphale closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at him in such proximity. But despite his predicament, he remained calm : he knew Crowley did not have it in him to hurt him. This was more a show of intimidation, meant for no one but Crowley himself. “You will not kill him.” 

“I thought you wanted to stop Armageddon?” 

“I did. I do.” Crowley trailed his hands to Aziraphale's front, pressing them against his heart. He gripped the demon's collar tightly, as though to hoist him up. “But…” 

Aziraphale waited, and felt Crowley rest his head against his shoulder. 

“... Not at the cost of losing you.” Crowley's voice was soft, defeated. His eyes, when Aziraphale cupped his face and forced him to meet his gaze, were the most stunning shade of gold. 

“Oh, Crowley,” the demon said. “You will always have me. I am yours.” He pressed his thumb against Crowley’s lips, and watched in fascination as he swallowed and opened them slightly, allowing Aziraphale to touch his teeth. 

"Aziraphale," he said, voice breaking at the end of his name. Aziraphale retreated. Instead he searched Crowley’s hands, and linked their fingers together. 

“No killing babies,” he promised. 

“No killing babies,” Crowley repeated shakily. He looked down at their hands, contemplating. “We could just leave.” 

“Where?” 

“I don’t know." Crowley shook his head. "Alpha Centauri is always nice at this time of the year?” 

Aziraphale laughed softly. “We can’t do that, Crowley. You’d never forgive yourself - you love Earth too much to stand aside and watch it burn.” Those two options ruled out, there wasn’t much left they could do to stop Armageddon from taking its natural course. 

Crowley seemed to reach the same conclusion. His shoulders sagged and the tension left his body. He squeezed Aziraphale's hands, tucked his wings in and returned to sit on the sofa. Aziraphale followed suit. His skin was tingling everywhere Crowley had touched him. 

“Wine?” Crowley suggested. 

“Please.”

The demon handed him the glass. The minute Aziraphale's fingers curled around it, he let out a loud exclamation. The wine spilled over his hand and stained his lap, but he did not care. By Satan, he’d just had a brilliant idea. Oh, it was evil. And it was good. Crowley would like it. 

“Crowley!” he said. Across from him, his friend was watching him as though he'd suddenly grown a second head. “Oh, Crowley, I know. I know that when I have him, I must bring the baby to a hospital or suchlike, because the plan is to exchange it against another newborn baby.” 

Crowley listened, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I’m not going to comment on how awful that is for the family, but go on.” 

“Well…” Aziraphale joined his hands and tapped his fingers against his mouth thoughtfully. “What if," he gestured to Crowley, "What if there was a problem? What if I were to deliver the baby and somehow - take it back? What if they believed that another child was the Antichrist, and watched him as he grew, but - it wouldn’t be him? As for the real Antichrist - well, since killing is unfortunately out of the question, we could - we could take him in," he breathed out. 

Crowley stared at him without blinking. 

“Take him in?” 

“We could raise him. That way we could handle him when he comes into his powers, contrary to the average human family. We would have leverage over Heaven and Hell. Additionally, if we do our jobs right, as - as parents… he shall neither be good or evil, he’ll just be himself. And since he won’t come onto his powers until he’s eleven, we’d be safe from Heaven and Hell’s scrutiny, who will be busy watching the other child, and… Well if despite our best efforts he does bring about Armageddon, then hopefully he’ll like us enough to… protect us…from… the end of the world? Oh dear.” His voice faltered. His plan didn’t actually sound all that great now that he said it aloud. It was insane, and there were too many unpredictable variables. It could go very wrong. Besides, how were they expected to raise a child? They were an angel and a demon, for Satan’s sake, not exactly prime parenting material. They would have so many things to figure out - oh, oh this was a terrible idea. A terrible, stupid - 

Crowley lunged, breaching the space between them. He grabbed him by the collar. He kissed him. 

It wasn't so much a kiss as pressing his mouth against Aziraphale's clumsily, greedily, desperately. The demon melted. He closed his eyes, clinging to Crowley as he kissed him back with no small amount of enthusiasm. 

6000 years of teasing Crowley and waiting for him to make the first move. Now that he had (and it had taken suggesting they adopt a baby and move in together to make that happen) Aziraphale found that he was wholly unprepared for it. Crowley half climbed into his lap, all too long limbs and awkward angles. Aziraphale wrapped his arms behind Crowley's back to hold him closer, and kissed him with passion. Crowley got the hang of it after a little while. He tentatively cupped Aziraphale's face in his hands to guide him, and Aziraphale made a soft, needy noise he later would deny having ever emitted. 

It was as if Crowley stripped off all the masks he ever wore, one by one. Gone were the crow; then the demon, the glutton, the tempter; all that was left now was Aziraphale, the core of him, the burning heart; he was Crowley's, he belonged to him, he desired him like he’d never desired anything else. Crowley. Crowley. His angel. He needed him. He wanted him. He _loved_ him. It was impossible, but he did. 

"No," Aziraphale whined when Crowley pulled back. "Angel, please  -”

Crowley was smiling, glowing, dumb struck with happiness. “God, I’ve wanted to do that for ages.” He kissed Aziraphale once more, on the tip of his nose. The demon made another sound, his cheeks all pink - the only splash of color in his ensemble. He seemed to have been rendered incapable of speech. 

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Yes, Aziraphale, yes. It’s insane. You're insane. It's perfect. Switch the babies, raise the real Antichrist and hope he doesn’t turn out to be too evil. It's going to be very, very difficult." He grinned. "But he'll be good. I do believe humans are fundamentally good, my love, and he'll be raised as one. Plus, you never were a good demon anyway. I'm not too worried about your influence.” He kissed him again before Aziraphale could protest. “We’ll go somewhere. Not Alpha Centauri, but somewhere else. Near London, I know how much you love your bookshop." Aziraphale hummed distractedly. He trailed kisses down the side of Crowley's neck. "Maybe Tadfield? It’s unassuming. I've been there once, it's a great place to - _ah…_ to raise a kid. Aziraphale…" Crowley tilted his head to the side, baring his neck for him. His breathing was heavier. "You _demon._ You’re brilliant.” He moaned softly. 

Aziraphale did not think to reply. His mouth was otherwise occupied. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this without changing their names. Aziraphale works as a demon name just fine, and we'll say that Crowley is a surname (because he is fond of snakes, as he likes all living beings) and that he's used it for so long that his angelic name doesn't feel quite right. Aziraphale doesn't know it. 
> 
> Title is from Leonard Cohen's song, On the level, for those specific verses: 
> 
> "I was fighting with temptation  
> But I didn't want to win."
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it ! Drop a comment and/or kudo to let me know ! :)


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